Because The Soul Is Like

For In Truth It Is Life That Gives Unto Life-while You, Who Deem Yourself A Giver, Are But A Witness.

The Deeper That Sorrow Carves Into Your Being, The More Joy You Can Contain.

For That Which Is Boundless In You Abides In The Mansion Of The Sky, Whose Door Is The Morning Mist, And Whose Windows Are The Songs And The Silences Of Night.

And Ever Has It Been Known That Love Knows Not Its Own Depth Until The Hour Of Separation.

The Philosopher's Soul Dwells In His Head, The Poet's Soul Is In His Heart; The Singer's Soul Lingers About His Throat, But The Soul Of The Dancer Abides In All Her Body.